Walk With Me
by BrownBlossoms
Summary: "You love someone," she'd whispered to him once. They stood in a graveyard, distant but dependent on one another still—one of the few forces capable of preventing the apocalypse. "You do not know it yet, yourself, but you love someone, and it is not me." Ichabod and Abbie confront their feelings after one year in Sleepy Hollow. Smut ensues.


**A/N: Prepare for glorious, smut-filled feels from this point forward. Obviously, I don't own these characters/Sleepy Hollow, but damn is it fun to write about them. Please enjoy this fic; reviews are always welcome.**

* * *

_You love someone_, she'd whispered to him once. They stood in a graveyard, distant but dependent on one another still—one of the few forces capable of preventing the apocalypse. _You do not know it yet, yourself, but you love someone, and it is not me._

* * *

"Walk with me."

He says this gently, out of breath from their laughter only moments ago. It's such a striking phrase; it pierces them both, replacing the easy mood with a thick silence—the kind you wade through with careful step, lest you break open all of the things you've hidden within yourself.

Abigail smiles, face warm and flushed from the evening. "Now?" She looks around. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Now, now, leftenent," he interrupts. "You were the one who so aptly suggested this outing."

"I said we should do something, sometime, that wasn't work related—"

"And here we are." He gestures to the megaplex behind them. "And non-work related, it was. But I must admit, I feel slightly deafened by that film thanks to those god awful…contraptions—"

"Speakers," Abbie corrects him.

He shoots her a sidelong glance tinged with the hint of a smile. "Speakers. At any rate, some fresh air might do us both good. Will you walk with me?"

Abbie bites her lip; she has so much work waiting on her back at the station. Papers to file, things that desperately need her attention. Things she'd hoped to lose herself within, things that would keep her from thinking about how close they just were. About how warm he'd been next to her, his accidental strokes against her hand, him whispering questions into her ear throughout the film. Yes, filing paperwork seemed like a good idea.

"I can't." She looked past him. "Irving's been riding me, and I have a lot back at the station that needs finishing."

He paused momentarily.

"Right. Might I see that device of yours?"

Abbie narrows her eyes, both suspicious and surprised. "Why do you need my phone?"

"You shall see."

It takes him some fiddling with the shiny instrument before Abbie realizes her mistake. It isn't until he's got it to his ear that she rushes forward, hands outstretched, to take it back.

"Crane, no—"

"Yes, Captain Irving?" Ichabod asks, easily avoiding her short arms. "Yes, um. Hello. This is Ichabod Cr—yes. Well, I have contacted you for good reason, sir. You see, Miss Mills and I are slated to go for a stroll, but your ridiculous work regimen threatens to keep her preoccupied for the rest of the evening."

Abbie stands back, hands over her face, fighting desperately to keep her laughter contained.

"So…it is with the best intentions that I demand you release her from her duties."

"Crane," Abbie whispers. "Just give me the phone."

Ichabod turns to her, phone still plastered against his face.

"Really?" he says, drawn out and theatric. "You mean, you did not ask her to come in this evening? Yes…yes, I see. I understand quite clearly now. Well, my sincerest apologies for the interruption. Please do…carry on." He hands Abbie her phone smugly. "It seems as though you are free this evening."

"Unbelievable."

"But…if you'd rather not come, I do understand." He is sheepish now, perhaps embarrassed by her response, or his actions. "I—that was rather rude of me. I should apologize—"

"You're unbelievable, but I'll go." She says the final words with a smile, beaming bright enough to make him warm all over. "But I'm never giving you my phone again."

Ichabod extends his arm in return. "This way, Abigail."

* * *

She halfway expects some mythical entity to emerge from the wooded trail before them, but it's miraculously quiet. Instead, there are only the sounds of crunching leaves and cricket melodies that paint their backdrop. Here and there, his hand brushes hers—always accidentally, and accompanied with a forgiving smile. But their silence is laden with so many things: his energy, the way that he moves foliage aside for her when they pass, how he extends his hand to steady her gait as they traverse sodden earth.

"You wanna tell me where we're headed?"

He scoffs playfully. "Where's your sense of adventure, lieutenant?"

"You have no idea where we're going, do you?" She smirks.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," he quips, returning her smile.

When they reach an open clearing, faint with the glow of some ethereal light, Abbie grabs his elbow lightly.

"Something's ahead," she whispers, reaching for her weapon. But when Ichabod's hand gently covers hers, effectively stopping the motion, she struggles to quiet her thrumming heart.

"It's alright."

His voice is warm honey, springtime underneath rose bushes—both lovely and languid. He guides her forward, his hand against the small of her back.

"Crane…" Her breath comes to a halt when she sees the spectacle before her.

Inside the clearing, a blanket lies spread about. It's framed by fallen leaves, a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a picnic basket. Abbie turns, her face incredulous.

"How did you? I mean, what is this? Did you set this up yourself?"

"Believe it or not, Miss Mills, I am capable of accomplishing some things without your immediate help." His grin is gentle, kind. "I thought it appropriate for a celebration."

"My birthday isn't until May," she teases, following him to the set up.

"Duly noted," he says, chuckling. "But, you see, it's been one full year since I arrived in Sleepy Hollow. One year of preventing the apocalypse, of making friends and battling the darkness. Of finding an unexpected home. Of finding you."

He hands her a glass of wine.

"That is something I shall always be grateful to have done."

Abbie smiles, accepting the glass. "This is too much."

"Quite the contrary. To you, Abbie." He raises his glass.

"To us," she returns, beaming.

They drink until the cold digs into their bones, and huddle up for warmth under the blanket; laughter fills the quiet space, echoes across barren trees, and stirs the underbrush. When she points out constellations to him, he mocks her playfully, and then guides her hand toward others that he likes better. This night is theirs; it's painted with their very essence, full to bursting with everything that they have ever been or will be.

_You love someone, and it is not me._ It was easier when he didn't believe those words, but they settle now into the cool, starry evening.

"Crane," Abbie begins, her voice thick with an edge-of-sleep softness, "What do you think life would be like if we hadn't met one another? If you'd never come to Sleepy Hollow?"

She isn't sure why she asks this question, and Ichabod isn't sure how to answer.

"Your question makes no sense."

"Excuse me?" She asks playfully.

Wine makes loose tongues, and Ichabod feels the words spill forth before he can stop them.

"You may as well ask me what it would be like to live without lungs, without the ability to breathe. That is what it would be like to live in a world where you do not exist."

Silence engulfs them once more, but this time it is ripe with meaning. Each second is agony. Each breath feels like a crime.

"Crane," Abbie begins, unable to withstand the silence.

When his lips crash into hers, she should be surprised. She should feel ashamed, aghast at this brazen person before her. But she sighs into him, their lips parting gently now, and deepens their kiss. When his teeth graze her bottom lip, she keens softly into his mouth.

"We shouldn't," Abbie whispers, her fingers tangled in his hair. "I mean, we can't."

"Right," he whispers, unmoving.

They hover there silently, suspended in time, until the cold reaches them again. When Ichabod begins to rise, suspecting that he's lingered too long without an adequate explanation for his behavior, Abbie pulls him back, wraps her legs around him, and arches to meet his lips.

"We shouldn't…but I need you," she breathes against him, drinking in his scent. "I need you, Ichabod."

Her voice is but a whisper against the wind, yet it sends shivers down his spine all the same. They stay there, lips poised over one another, drinking in each other's want. Slowly, agonizingly, Ichabod drags his tongue along her bottom lip.

Abbie moans, taking his mouth against hers fully, and plunges her hands into his coat. His body is warm against her fingers, and she rakes her nails against the fabric separating them.

"Abbie," he breathes, feeling her grind her warm center against his throbbing dick.

She grinds harder as he drags kisses down her neck, sucking and biting several spots deliciously. When his lips plant themselves just above her collar bone, he nips and ravishes the skin there, prompting a melody of moans to greet the night. She grabs one of his hands, moving them to her breasts, and spreads his palm against them. Feeling a hardened nipple perk up between her fabrics, he circles and kneads the small bump with deft fingers. She arches, calling out now, her own hands wandering down toward the growing slickness between her legs. She yearns desperately to feel him, to feel anything, in this moment.

"No," he whispers, noting the trail of her hand. He brings it to his warm mouth, placing light kisses atop each finger, and chides her sweetly. "Allow me."

With a little light fumbling, they remove their clothes quickly. Ichabod would not have their lips parted for too long; he captures her mouth again, this time with her atop him, and begins trailing his fingers downward. Abbie watches him in awe; he heads past her lacy underwear, traverses her downy curls, and slides two fingers into her growing wetness. She looks up at him, eyes soft, his name on the edge of her lips.

"I want you to watch me, Abbie."

His voice is low, rough with an edge she's not used to. Slowly, she shifts her focus downward, and watches him draw tantalizing circles inside her panties, feels his fingers pass over her throbbing clitoris again and again. Slowly, she moves against his fingers. Their rhythm picks up; faster and faster he circles, his free hand massaging her nipples between his fingers. She moans his name, calls out, begs, keens, massages her other breast, and watches him take her to ecstasy.

"Oh fuck, oh god. Ichabod…"

She's practically riding him, her clit rubbing deliciously against his quick, wet fingers over and over again. He watches her move against him; she is breasts bouncing, lips parted in a hollow cry, and she releases a strangled groan. He wants to tell her to come, to spill all over him, but the thought threatens to send him toppling.

Without warning, he switches up; he focuses his fingers on top of her clit and moves them relentlessly against the sensitive nub. Like lightning, they move in quick spurts back and forth against her, bringing her to her peak. Quickly, he grabs her chin, pulling her face toward his.

She screams, her nails raking against his shoulders, unraveling against him.

"No, no, no," she begs, dislodging his hand. Shakily, she reaches around them, fumbling around in her purse.

"No?" He asks breathily.

Abbie produces a black foil packet, one he's noticed in certain store aisles (ones that Abbie seems to specifically avoid when with him). She opens it between her teeth, dips down to lick the precum that's gathered atop his dick. He groans, jerking slightly toward her mouth. She looks up at him, grins devilishly, and slides the latex over his member.

"I want to feel you inside of me."

He kisses her, tasting the salty-sweetness of her tongue against his, while she slowly grinds her wetness against him. It elicits soft breaths and strangled cries from them both, but it isn't until Abbie buries herself atop his dick that he calls out her name.

"Oh god, Abbie."

She cries out, too, pushing him to lie down on the mat. He fills her fully, stretching and sliding deftly, hitting that deliciously electric spot within her. Neither let up—she sliding, grinding, bouncing, and riding him, and him meeting her with quick thrusts that dig deeper each time. She murmurs his name again and again, fingers twisting each nipple in delightful patterns, while he rubs her ass, spurring her on, and feels his dick plunge into her warmth. It's too much, too much sensation—the cool air meeting her skin, raising goosebumps and taut nipples that beg for his tongue, the constant sensation of meeting her ribbed walls that fit him so snugly.

He can take no more; her choked moans and jerky movements threaten to push him over too soon. Quickly, he pushes his fingers back to her clit; he rubs hurriedly, jaggedly, on the edge of cumming, himself. Her face contorts, her hands drop to his chest, and she rides him until they spill, until they tumble down from that dark place where they've kept their love hidden from one another.

They cry out together, ride out each pleasurable wave, languishing in the other's openness, until nothing but quiet breaths and gentle kisses remain. Her nested at his side again, his strong arms wrapped about her. After a time, he chuckles quietly to himself.

"What?" Abbie asks tiredly.

"All this time," he pauses, "I've been trying to figure out how to tell you that I love you, and…"

"I think you just did." She whispers, smiling.

And they lie there, for some time, basking in all the happiness between them.


End file.
